xp_logs | Red God: War On A Chessboard

Traveling through the dream/mindscape, the three X-Men begin to understand what's going on.

Distances are not what they should be, here, Nathan realizes as they walk. They compress and expand, wax and wane. Or perhaps the problem is with their perspective. They are moving towards the mountain, or should be - the mountain that is sacred in Wakanda tradition, Nathan finds himself remembering - but their progress is questionable, even as the land around them changes, shifting like a restless sea. As if it cannot decide just yet what it should be. There is still no sign of habitation, however. Or people.

Who would know? he says, as much to himself as to his companions. Thinking aloud seems natural enough here, where thought itself is visible. Who could know, what Wakanda was like before the meteor? Is this an educated guess? A fantasy?

The Wakanda they know is living its golden age. So why reach back, to before the beginning? His mind presents him with a pattern, spun out of history with the meteor at its center. A country given life when death falls from the sky. In the gloom, the pattern is visible, faint golden strands of light twisting through the darkness around him.

Ancestral memory? Jean wonders aloud, moving forward and every time her foot steps down there is a path there - if she moved away would the path go with her? The same symbols show up in all times and cultures. Archetypes which don't mean anything, that transcend meaning, are meaning themselves. How else to represent the primal strength of lightning except with lightning itself? As she says it, off in the distance there is a flash and a rumble of what could be the idea of thunder, if it were detached from a storm. Lightning in a vacuum of being, Jean thinks, and then isn't sure if she thought it or it thought her.

In the moment of silence that follows the thunder, there is a sound that cannot be attributed to the natural world. Voices, raised in chanting in a language neither English nor the Wakandan dialects of the modern day. Ahead in the dark, there is a flash of color. The ruddy light of fire, suddenly there, as if dropped from the sky directly into their path.

They walk that way, the dirt path moving like a ribbon underneath their feet. The voice grow louder, and even as Ororo strains to decipher them understanding begins to dawn. The words are still a mystery, but the haunting sound can only be a plea, a petition... A prayer.

In a way, Jean is glad for the extra people; they define the world around her, giving it shape and depth, more so than just that provided by her companions. At the same time, though, no one sees the same thing the same way, and all the different views can become overwhelming, the way that a tsunami can be overwhelming. Who do they pray to? The world is listening...

Nathan looks up at the fire in the sky, the approaching meteor, and then ahead of them, at the dancers. Dance as prayer. It fits seamlessly into the world as it is, somehow. Help, he says distantly. There are patterns in the dance, drawing him in. Beseeching, a nearly magnetic force. They see what's coming. They're praying for help.

The movement is hypnotic, and Ororo realizes that she doesn't know how long she has been watching it when she finally breaks out of her reverie. Who would help them? Of all the gods... She trails off, taking in the fluid lines of the dance, the turns and flow of it, the grace of the dancers. They are human, that she can tell, but also different, something more. Something cat-like and strong.

Strong. He protects his followers. His pride. He is king.

Sekmeht. The Lion God. It is his help they seek.

Nathan tilts his head, frowning at the flicker of movement in the shadows beyond the fire. Another Wakandan emerges, shouting at the dancers, pulling one of them - a young woman - out of the circle. The pattern fractures briefly, another pattern emerging, and as they clash, Nathan sees. A lion in the fire, and a panther in the shadows.

The observer is the foundation of the world, Jean mutters, stepping back from the heat of the fire and the clashing edges of reality as it shifts again. Think you see and it is there, believe it will come and it does. He comes.

There was a great shiver in the air, and a clap of thunder, though no light showed through the sky at the sound. Ororo watches as the girl pulled from the circle of dancers is held by the arms, her eyes showing white all around. There is another clap and she screams, though it is hard to tell where the sound leaves her throat and begins in the sky. The fire jumps higher, flames licking at the velvet-edged night, and the dancers throw their arms up in supplication and appeal.

The Lion God? Nathan questions, flinching at the noise. That doesn't - Ororo, I thought the tribal totem was a panther. But there are both here, he sees them, warily circling each other in fire and shadow. Echoes of something else. Something much bigger. His mind reels at the possibilities.

There is always another. He has been dormant for years - centuries, even. In hiding. Waiting. She see a fiery paw reach out, slashing at the shadows, which retreat, but only for a moment. But lions do not sleep forever.

Even a single memory can create ripples in the world, Jean says, and it sounds like agreement. Add thought and even belief and the gravity shifts, new centers are formed. How is it possible that this is so strong? And that sounds down right sane, actually. The Lion can't have enough followers to be creating this much of an effect.

There are no atheists in foxholes, Nathan says uncertainly, watching the man attempting to reclaim his - daughter? Sister? The panther in the shadows seems to fade away, and the fire leaps higher, brighter.

And Nathan clutches at his skull with a cry as a roar like thunder echoes through the world, as something - no, Something tears across the dreamscape in a blur of rage and teeth and golden fur.

And the man - explodes, torn to pieces from the inside out.

Sweet Goddess.

The lion is gone as quickly as it came, but not before the image of its red, dripping jaws are imprinted on the minds of the three who watched. It was no animal hunting for its meal, but a thing intent only on destruction for destruction's sake.

The dancers whirl in a frenzy at this demonstration, their cries turning to sounds no human throat could make. And then they stop. Turn. See the three standing there. Advance.

Run.

Jean flinches back, eyes pressing shut but she can't stop the deluge of images. Pain, fear, anger, passion, hatred, the human impulses overwhelmed by the Otherness of the beast. Forcing her eyes open again at Ororo's word she sees the dancers begin to move, and to themselves they no longer look human. Without a word Jean turns to follow Ororo.

They run, the three of them, until the fire is a distant flicker and the footsteps behind them fall silent. Nathan knows that he's not truly out of breath, that it's a reflection of the tension and the fear, but he still doubles over slightly as they pause to regroup.

That was real death, he says raggedly. They are patterns here, and the dead man's is a pattern now broken forever. He may drop dead of a heart attack in the physical world, but... he's gone. And the dead man would not be the only one, Nathan is suddenly sure. This is war, he says, almost under his breath. War on a chessboard.